Coming Home
by AlwaysAReasonToWakeUp
Summary: Oneshot. Takes place in 3x16 and serves as my version of the Sterek rave scene we so desperately want to see and a reunion. Sorry if they're out of character.


He's going to kill them. He is actually going to kill them this time.

Really, after being kidnapped by some still-unknown crazy-ass people searching for the mysterious she-wolf he knows nothing about and communicating with his dead mother for the first time in eight years (and he's not dwelling on that, he's not, because that's a whole other thing to focus on and he can't do it right now), Derek thinks that he deserves some time to relax in his loft, maybe get some much needed rest.

But no. Instead, he comes home to a fucking RAVE in his living room.

There's so much going on around him that he doesn't even know where to look first. It's bright, too fucking bright; the writhing bodies around him are illuminated by the strobe lights bouncing around at seizure-inducing speeds and, of course, glow-in-the-dark paint. There's an overwhelming smell of sweat and arousal assaulting him from every angle. He needs to find Scott.

A cursory glance around the room finds Allison and Isaac grinding on each other (and okay, when did that become a thing?), Lydia leaning up against a beam by herself (also weird), and Stiles-god, Stiles dancing like he's absolutely shitfaced, which he probably is. But no Scott. He looks around again just to be sure, and tries not to focus on the absolute idiot that Stiles is making of himself, because really, he has way more important things to do. Like finding that little alpha bastard and possibly wringing his scrawny alpha neck. He seems to have found a very convenient hiding place, though, because Derek can't find him anywhere.

An extremely annoying voice in the back of his brain says that Stiles would know where Scott is. They are best friends, after all. Derek weighs his options before sighing dramatically (What? It's the teenage hormones floating around him) and pushing his way through the masses, deciding he can kill two birds with one stone and make Stiles stop dancing like that. He manages to get behind Stiles without him noticing anything, and roughly tugs him around because he really doesn't trust himself enough to do anything else. Stiles is grinning as he moves but it fades the second he sees Derek's face. His mouth just kind of hangs open and his eyebrows shoot up so fast that Derek is surprised he doesn't get whiplash.

"Holy shit," Stiles croaks out, and shakes his head like he's trying to convince himself that this real, like he can't imagine Derek actually being there because he's spent the last month-

No. Derek needs to get his shit together and he needs to get it together right now. He looks back up at Stiles and tries to put on a good scowl. "Where's Scott?"

Stiles' eyebrows go up even further, if that's even possible. "Nice to see you too, Sourwolf. Hate to break it to you, but I have no idea where Scott is. As you might have noticed, it's a little crowded in here." He pulls out of Derek's grip and crosses his arms, and wow, since when was he that ripped? That had to be new, right? Derek growls a little louder than he means to in an attempt to make his mind shut the fuck up, and Stiles opens his mouth again. "What're you really doing here, man?'

"You mean besides wondering when exactly I gave anyone permission to use my house as a rave site?" Stiles has the decency to look a little guilty at that, Derek notices. He also notices that he never wants Stiles to look that guilty about anything ever again, but he ignores that. "I need to find Scott."

Stiles starts grinning then, and Derek is reminded of just how drunk he is when he steps as close as he can to Derek without touching him and practically purrs, "You sure that's the only reason you came over here? You really sure about that?" He's doing that thing where he peeks up at Derek through those fucking eyelashes that are literally the most feminine thing Derek has ever seen; seriously, what the fuck-Jesus, Derek needs to sleep.

"You caught me," he says instead. "I felt it was my duty as a person to protect these innocents from your flailing limbs. Who even dances like that, Stiles? No one dances like that."

Stiles is outraged. "What's wrong with my dancing?! No one seems to think it's terrible except you."

"Trust me, they're terrified. They're just too nice to say anything."

"Well I think you're wrong." And with that, Stiles starts dancing again. Derek lets out a breath through his nostrils as he narrowly misses getting nailed in the face with an elbow.

"I'm not. You need to stop. For the sake of everyone around you."

Stiles turns around, a challenge sparking in his eye. "Yeah, old man? You gonna make me?"

Derek almost chokes, and thanks whatever higher being there is that Stiles isn't a werewolf and can't smell the arousal that is so evidently emanating from him at this point. He realizes too late that his eyes have probably gone way darker than they normally are, and when Stiles glances down at the very obvious tent in Derek's jeans, his suspicions are confirmed.

Stiles just looks back at him, and his pupils have blown so wide that he looks like he's on drugs. It takes Derek a minute to process that it's not just a one-sided thing, that Stiles feels the sexual tension thick in the air too, before he's grabbing the collar of Stiles' stupid striped t-shirt and crashing their mouths together.

It's not at all like what Derek imagined kissing Stiles would be like. He expected sloppy, eager, messy, because Stiles has made it painfully clear to all of them that he's still a virgin and has barely kissed anyone (and that that one time with Lydia totally didn't count because it was strictly an emergency thing). But Stiles kisses Derek like he's fucking practiced. It's by no means gentle; Stiles' tongue is exploring Derek's mouth with an intensity he can barely handle, and the force of their lips against one another's would probably bruise if it could. But it's pretty much as close to perfect as Derek can imagine.

He becomes aware that Stiles is pushing him backwards toward the wall closest to them, and actually picks up his feet to move the process along a little. Once his back hits it, though, Stiles pulls back with a look on his face that Derek thinks probably shouldn't be there. He takes a minute to catch his breath before taking Derek completely by surprise and punching him in the face.

"FUCK!" Stiles shrieks, cradling his hand as Derek flexes his jaw, impressed by how much force Stiles actually put into the punch.

"Any particular reason you did that, or..."

"You left, jackass. You left and you didn't say anything and then you're suddenly back and the first thing you fucking say is 'Where's Scott?' Not cool. And then you go and kiss me, which, it's about fucking time, but still-"

Derek's hand is now covering his mouth, and Derek is still reeling over the part about it being about time, but rather than dwell on it he just shakes his head and says "Shut up, Stiles" before leaning down and kissing him again.

This time Derek makes it very clear that he's in control. He draws it out, makes it slow and gentle, tries to apologize for all the shit he's put Stiles through using only his lips and tongue. It seems to be working, seeing as the noises coming out of Stiles are near pornographic. He trails his lips down the side of Stiles' jaw, giving him a minute to catch his breath, and shudders when Stiles traces a finger under Derek's shirt.

"I think we should probably go somewhere not full of people so that there isn't a crowd of onlookers when I blow you."

As much as Derek thinks that's probably a really good idea, the morality inside him makes him put a hand on Stiles' shoulder and say, "I need you to know what you're saying. If you wake up tomorrow sober and still want this, I'll be there. But I'm not good for you, Stiles. We both know that. You deserve a chance to find someone who can make you happy. I don't think I can be that person." And with that he turns around and tries to disappear back into the swarm like he's become so good at doing. He almost doesn't hear or smell Stiles until he's right behind him.

"Excuse me, but I'm pretty sure we were having a fucking moment, so you're not allowed to pull the broody manpain werewolf card and just leave me hanging, Derek. Not after that." He looks pissed, like he wants to hit something very hard. Probably Derek. Again.

"Stiles, you're drunk. I can't-"

"I'm not drunk, Derek."

It takes Derek a minute to process that. "But you purred."

Stiles snorts. "It's called seduction, dude. Obviously it didn't work like I wanted it to since you thought I was drunk, but hey, worth a shot, right?"

Derek looks at Stiles then, really looks at him. His eyes are clear, and when he breathes in he can't smell anything other than sweat, which somehow makes Stiles smell better. He's not going to bother trying to figure that out right now.

"Derek." And wow, when did Stiles get so close to him? Probably when you were gazing into his eyes like a fourth grader, the oh-so-helpful voice chimes in again.

"Hey. Focus. I want this. I want you. I've wanted you for a really fucking long time, but I never thought there was any chance that you felt the same way. None. Believe it or not, I'd really enjoy helping you kick your-admittedly many-demons in their demon-y asses. Take a chance, Derek, ok? Jump. I'm here. I'll catch you, and provide cheesy clichés every step of the way."

Stiles laughs and looks Derek dead in the eye. "And I'd really like you to take me to your bedroom now and let me suck your dick because if that doesn't get the message across I'm really not sure what will."

So Derek does what any sane person in his position would do. He jumps.


End file.
